you or the Chief ignoring our missives as well?’ Months of preparation. Hours of manoeuvring and counselling for every circumstance. But there wasn’t a circumstance here. The sun was well risen, the day was warm, the armour was heavy and getting hot, and nothing...nothing was occurring. He wanted this done with and to return home. ‘Are you conceding the lands are ours without a fight?’
‘I’ll concede those lands will remain as they are, Rory, son of Finley and only heir.’
Rory didn’t let his gaze stray from the man in front of him, but he was acutely aware of the bowmen at the top of the gates and the men on the ground. Aware of the woman trying to hide in the door’s shadows and failing. She wore white, her hair like a bright flame, her hand now rested on her stomach as if she was holding herself in.
He knew how she felt. A trap he had stepped in and one that was unavoidable. He could take on one, maybe two of the men before him, but not all. ‘You know who I am and yet...’ Rory let the sentence drop, hoping the man in front of him would complete it.
The warrior shrugged. ‘Time would be better spent eating and drinking, no?’
‘You prepared a feast for our arrival?’
‘We knew you were coming. You wrote us a missive to that effect.’ The man turned slightly and indicated for Rory to follow him to the keep. ‘You haven’t broken your fast yet?’
Rory ate nothing other than was necessary for strength this morning. Any more and he couldn’t fight well. ‘Lochmores have never eaten at a McCrieff table.’
‘That is because you’ve never been invited before.’
This conversation was more along Paiden’s gift for circuitous conversation. What he wouldn’t give for his friend beside him to interpret. All Rory knew in this moment was if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Sparring with words wasn’t his way, being direct was. ‘Tell me what game this is and get on with it.’
‘Do you like games?’
‘I never played a game in my life.’ He’d been honed to be a weapon by his father and, when he could think or act for himself, he’d kept to the regime. Once the arrow was shot, it had no choice but to continue where it was aimed.
‘But this one you’ve entered into already. I know you see her.’
Anything of frustration in him left immediately and his focus remained locked on to the warrior before him. Older, but no less deadly. A worthy opponent by the way he held himself. Fearless since he had no weapon out in preparation to an attack.
His father was like this as well. But the man did keep his eyes on Rory their entire exchange. The woman, for she was the only woman visible in this courtyard, was still half-hidden. Yet this man knew she was there watching them.
‘She’s hiding from you.’
‘Little escapes my observations.’
‘Who are you?’ Rory said.
‘I’ll introduce myself and my daughter when you’ve entered the McCrieffs’ Hall, son of Lochmore.’
So be it. Rory turned to signal his men. A fatal mistake. A bite of steel against his side, a harsh grasp of one arm, then the other.
There was time to free himself, to fight, but Rory knew it would be brief. He could negotiate for his men better alive than dead. With a shove at the men holding him, he allowed the wrenching of his arms behind his back as he faced the McCrieff.
The warrior gave a knowing smile. ‘I said you’re invited, I didn’t say as a guest.’
Hurry, hurry, hurry. The mantra hurtled itself through Ailsa’s thoughts faster than her feet carried her to the safety of her rooms.
Lochmores on McCrieff land. Arrows and swords drawn, shields low, but ready, and one armour-clad man riding freely into their courtyard.
Shocked, she had stood on the steps and gawked. He was...huge. Broad of shoulder, his arms twice as thick as any man’s she’d ever seen. His horse was the largest, because he was the largest. All her life she’d been surrounded by warriors, fierce, protective. But there was no one like him...this stranger who rode through their gates as if he owned McCrieff Castle.
He’d worn no helmet, but the distance between them was not far and she had seen the glint of determination as he surveyed his surroundings. Everything about him screamed of dominance, of power, of ownership. He was a ruler and, like all rulers, he held himself as if he owned it all.
She had watched as he minutely adjusted the reins of the great beast he rode, as he dismounted and strode towards her father. The sound of the chainmail slapping against leather, the crunch of pebbles under his feet, the way his brown hair brushed against his forehead when the wind picked up.
She had felt the way her fingers tingled as he swiped away the errant curl. And in that, she knew she hadn’t only gawked because he was a Lochmore who held some power. She’d gawked because he was a man. And the shiver through her body had nothing to do with the slight wind at the time and all to do with the man whose searching eyes found her.
She reached the top of the stairs only to find the winding hallway to her chambers empty as well. Everyone was down below or in hiding. This part of the keep was her refuge and domain. But she didn’t feel safe.
She hadn’t felt safe downstairs hiding partially surrounded by thick walls and a great door. She had thought herself well hid and certainly well beyond the man’s acknowledgement.
Yet, his eyes hadn’t remained on her father, they had scanned his surroundings, finding the men with arrows and swords, finding...her. Her heart had skipped before it thudded strong in her chest as their gazes met. He’d been too far for her to discern his features with clarity, too far for her to hear the conversation they’d held properly.
It hadn’t mattered. The distance hadn’t taken away the impact of his gaze on her and it hadn’t masked some of the words exchanged with her father.
Words, a name she never thought to hear. His name was Rory. Rory. A name that shouldn’t hold significance to her except that the old healer had told her a fable. A mere story, but it was lodged as a fact firmly inside her thoughts and memories. She’d curse the healer for telling that story if it didn’t risk her very soul blaspheming the dead.
Could he be the same Rory? Ailsa scoffed at herself for thinking that thought, rushed into her room and slammed the door. No one here. Good, for her knees trembled so badly she leaned against the door and forced them to lock before she slid to the floor in a useless puddle.
He couldn’t be the same Rory, even if Rhona’s story was true. Rory was a common enough name. And even if he was that baby, should it make a difference? No. Her friend Magnus was dead for ever. Just last winter two McCrieffs guarding the border had died when several Lochmores rushed across the border and engaged in a fight.
No a name shouldn’t make a difference. The only difference between how McCrieffs treated Lochmores was when a Lochmore strode through the courtyard, her
